warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), pornstar!reader, rough sex, spanking (light), panty pulling, unprotected sex (within filming context), clark finishes on reader, overstimulation, nsfw language + themes.
don’t want to see this kind of content? feel free to block these tags: #pornstar!clark #kentwiththegooddick #kwtgd #kwtgd kinks
By the time the video picked up, Clark was already fucking you hard enough to make the bed shake. You were face down on the mattress with your ass pushed up for him, bra still on, panties dragged off to one side. The setup was supposed to sell some rushed little quickie, one of those cheap, overused porno scenarios where nobody bothered getting fully undressed because apparently there just wasn’t time.
Clark didn’t care about any of that.
What he did care about, though, was the way your ass kept meeting his hips.
He stood behind you at the edge of the bed, driving into you over and over while you pushed right back, keeping pace without needing to be told. His hands locked around your hips, pulling you onto his cock as your body bounced against him with every thrust. He felt each impact through his grip, but all of his attention remained fixed on the movement beneath him.
Your panties only made everything impossible to ignore. The lace thong stayed crooked across one side of your ass, stretched tight where it still clung to you and twisted where he’d shoved it aside. Each stroke tugged the fabric a little higher, the thin strip shifting against your skin every time you took him deep again.
And you kept doing it.
Meeting him thrust for thrust. Taking every hard snap of his hips and sending your own back for the next one, making it worse. Better. Harder for him to remember there was a camera pointed at either of you. Clark watched as you arched your back for him, leaning forward until your chest pressed deeper into the mattress, opening yourself up for another hard pass. Then another. Your ass lifted higher beneath his hands like you were giving him more room to fuck you, and something about the sight of it made him sink into the moment completely.
His grip tightened around your hips first, fingers digging in as he pulled you back onto his cock. Then one hand lifted.
The first smack cracked through the room. Your ass jolted beneath his palm while his cock stayed buried inside you, the impact making everything move around him. Clark watched it happen, watched the soft recoil of your body, the way your back dipped a little lower like the sting had only made you want more.
So he did it again.
Another sharp slap landed across the same cheek, louder this time. Your body jumped beneath his hand, but your rhythm never faltered. You only pushed back onto him harder, pulling a groan from his chest. Clark did it again without slowing, his palm coming down as your hips kept working against his.
Every reaction pulled him deeper into it. The louder you got, the harder he fucked you, and the harder he fucked you, the more your body gave back. It built between you, each response feeding the next until the control he usually kept so firmly in place started slipping.
His fingers bit into your hips as he drove into you faster, each motion pulling another sound from you until one hand left and caught the lace bunched across your ass. He wound it around his fist and pulled it taut, drawing your thong higher before using it to pull you back onto him. The next one landed heavier, and so did the one after that, each pull bringing your ass straight into his hips while he pushed forward to meet you.
Your voice climbed with the pace, each sound coming quicker as your back arched farther and your thighs tensed beneath you. Still, you kept pushing back, kept taking him, even as the pressure building inside you started to ruin your rhythm.
Clark could feel how close you were in the way you kept tightening around him, gripping harder every time he yanked you back by the lace and buried himself again. And knowing it only made him lose more of that control. His thrusts got deeper, harsher, each one knocking another sound out of you while his fist stayed twisted tight in your thong. He kept dragging you back and pounding into you without easing up, your body winding tighter around him until every stroke pushed you closer to the edge.
He thought the sight before had been bad enough, damning even, but now he knew better. Clark was so caught up in the way your body met his—the way your ass lifted for him, making the fabric bite into your skin as more of it disappeared into his fist—that he almost missed the way your sounds started changing. They pitched higher, grew messier, breaking apart with every movement between you. Then your back arched differently. Your ass snapped back hard against him once before your rhythm broke, stuttering against him as your thighs went tight and started shaking.
You came around him like that, crying out while your pussy clamped down hard enough to pull a ragged breath from him. Still, he didn’t stop. Didn’t miss a single beat. The lace strained across your hips as your body jerked beneath him. Every time you pushed back or tried to move with the force of your orgasm, he pulled you closer without realizing it, keeping you right there on his cock while he drove into you again. He wasn’t thinking about the fabric anymore. Wasn’t thinking about how far he’d stretched it or how much pressure he was putting on it.
He was thinking about the way you sounded. The way your ass kept trying to meet him even while your legs shook. The way you kept squeezing around him, wet and tight and still taking every hard thrust he gave you. Every pulse around his cock dragged him closer until his own movements started getting rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into you while your orgasm kept working through your body.
Then he pulled you back onto him again, harder than before.
Snap.
The lace gave in his fist, the sound cutting clean through everything before a little yelp jumped out of you. But even then, you didn’t stop fucking him. Your hips kept working, pushing back onto his cock with the torn fabric hanging loose around you, and that was enough to send him over.
Clark started to come with a rough, broken groan, his fist tightening around what was left of your thong as you kept fucking yourself back onto him. His hips lost whatever rhythm had been left, chasing the feeling instead as your body kept meeting every desperate rut. Somewhere in the middle of it, he swore he apologized. Thought he managed a strained, “Sorry,” but it was hard to tell when the word disappeared beneath your sounds and the relentless movement of your hips.
It nearly took him under completely before he remembered the scene. Remembered what he was supposed to do. More through sheer luck than any real will of his own, he slipped free at the last possible second, one hand keeping you steady while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked him through the rest of it.
His groans came out loud and unrestrained as thick, hot cum spilled over your ass. There was more than either of you expected. Some landed higher across your lower back while the rest gathered over the curve of you and slowly slipped toward the torn lace at your hips. The camera moved in close behind you, catching every filthy trace he’d left on your skin. You stayed arched on the mattress, still trying to catch your breath, while Clark stood over you with his chest heaving, eyes fixed on your ass like even now, after everything, he still hadn’t seen enough.
a/n: it's been so long, guys, i'm so sorry. i'm working through my drafts this weekend, so hopefully i can post some more soon. also, not sure how i feel about this one lol. either way, i hope you guys enjoy <3
heyyyyy, just wanted to give a little update since you helped me out with this, which thank you by the way! so i started death note and it's honestly insane, i really like it 😭🤍
AHHHH IM SO GLAD YOU LIKE IT!!! death note is truly peak 🥹🥹
summary: sometimes it's just nice to lend a helping hand.
word count: around 3.1k!
CWs: 18+ MDNI! this is literally just porn from beginning to end, holland march x fem!reader, established relationship, couple of spankings, dirty talk, no use of y/n, use of pet names, some dom/sub dynamics but nothing too major, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), finger sucking, edging if you squint, degradation if you squint, he's playful and so is reader, he's also a little pervy but is that really not expected for him?, kissing, spit play (?), cigarettes bc of course march would smoke during sex r u kidding me. i think that's the gist of it.
author's note: NO THIS ISN'T A REPOST BECAUSE I FORGOT TAGS IDK WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!!!!! sorry this was 10000000% self indulgent. i need this man more than i need air. anyway. i hope i nailed him?? i know he's a loser but even losers can be serious(ish) during sex. let me know your thoughts in reblogs and the comments below <3
"There you go," Holland purrs, low and deep and a little hazy, "just like that, baby."
His left hand, comfortably seated at the small of your back, trails up your spine before curving around your ribs. The calloused pads of his fingers brush over your flushed, sticky skin as they travel toward your chest. He smirks. Only takes a couple seconds for him to find and playfully pinch your sensitive, erect nipple adorning your right breast. Makes your body jolt and your head tilt back.
"My pretty girl."
If you weren't already making a mess on him before, you're definitely doing it now. Every shift of your hips produces a loud, filthy squelch that would make a pornstar blush. He feeds you praise and feels you up like no one else ever has or could. Simultaneously degrading and incredibly uplifting. Confusing, yes, but it makes you wetter than you ever imagined was possible.
It's not long before his hand slides back down and his fingers find your right hip. They dig into the soft flesh there, helping you keep your steady pace when you start to melt and stumble. Your thighs are burning while you rock back and forth on his cock. You've been going at it for what feels like an eternity. Slow and steady, just how he likes it when you're on top. Lets him eyeball and grope you.
World-class pervert. That's the next thing he needs to put in his ad in the paper.
Your hands find his shoulders as if they're meant to be plastered there. Even with him guiding your waist and your pace, you falter. Your hips stutter and you stop. You punch out a groan. In pausing your slow, borderline lazy movements, you ended up taking away your own pleasure.
The thick, overwhelming tension you'd been building in your lower abdomen with each shift of your hips begins to fade now that you've stopped moving them. At least it's a chance at gulping down deep, heaving breaths to prevent yourself from passing out.
It's frustrating to be so close to heaven and have it ripped away from you within seconds. It's even more frustrating when you're the one doing it to yourself.
With a set of pathetic, needy tears pooling in your eyes, you dig your nails into his shoulders and whine, "I—Fuck, I can't, Holland!"
How humiliating. And just after he praised you for doing so well, too.
"My poor baby," he murmurs. Adds a condescending little chuckle to it that has your cunt fluttering and your hips bucking. If you weren't so fucked out, you'd have made fun of the way his breath hitched in his throat when your pussy almost squeezed the life out of him.
He brings his right hand up to his mouth so he can pull a slow, deep drag from his cigarette. You completely forgot he was nursing that fucking thing. No wonder he's not playing with your clit.
Holland falls quiet for a moment. It's likely so he can let that smoke settle in his lungs. So he can let it burn a little bit. So he can feel alive.
Then, he exhales, the smoke curling upward toward the ceiling and clouding your senses. A lot of people don't like that smell. You don't mind it. Reminds you of him.
"Keep going," he mutters. "You wanna be a good girl for me, right?"
You nod. He hums. As he flicks off the ashes piling up at the end of his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on his bedside table, he continues, "Well, you can't be a good girl if you stop moving."
One little shift of your hips, a gentle roll against his, is all you can muster. It feels good; of course it does. Has you keening and digging your nails into his shoulders. That must have been the last of your energy. Holland picks up on it and raises one brow.
"C'mon, baby. You gonna make me do everything after I had such a hard day? I know you can do better than this."
He punctuates his chastizing by slapping your ass. A quick, harsh slap from his left hand that echoes through your bedroom and makes you squeal.
You whimper and lean forward, head falling into the crook of his neck and arms slipping around his torso. Your thighs start to shake when you try to lift and rock your hips; a pathetic little display of exhaustion that you'll end up feeling embarrassed about later.
"Sit up," he commands. Slaps your ass one more time.
Seeing this side of him is rare. Dominant and serious. Steady. His hands haven't trembled once since this has all started. That thought alone has your pussy fluttering again. Maybe if you think about all of this hard enough, you'll come from that alone.
But relief never comes easily to you on that rare occasion that he's like this. That much is clear when Holland kisses your temple and says, "I know you heard me. Don't make me tell you again."
You groan. Your hands trek up toward his chest, palms pressing against it so you can push yourself up and send him a glare. He laughs at you. Winks at you, too. Then he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and snarks, "You have two hands. You could always help yourself out."
"You have a fucking free hand right now!" you bite back while you reach back and smack the back of his hand where it sits on your ass. Has him huffing before he goes for another pull off of his cigarette.
Holland shrugs. Blows out his drag and clears his throat.
"Yeah, but I like to watch. You look real pretty when you play with yourself, sweetheart."
You roll your eyes. They're the only things that you roll.
"Pervert," you whisper while you lean in to kiss him. Your hips remain still, plastered on top of him and unflinchingly rigid. If you're gonna be tortured by a lack of stimulation, might as well take him down with you. What's the worst that could happen? He'll slap your ass again?
The kiss is desperate. Both of you are needy and frustrated, and that kiss is the result of that; deep, slow, and a little sloppy. He didn't waste a single fucking second when your lips hit his. His tongue found its way into your mouth almost immediately, pulling a whine out of you that you didn't know was tucked away in your throat. He tastes like cigarettes and a little hint of whiskey from dinner and although a lot of people might hate that, you find comfort in it.
The kiss is sinful, but not as sinful as the way you part. When you pull back, and there's a thin line of saliva connecting you both, and Holland's looking up at you like you're a thick cut of steak and he's a dog who hasn't eaten in days.
Something about that gives you a bit of a second wind. You start slow; a gentle, lazy back and forth shift of your hips. Just enough to give both of you some friction, to make both of you moan. To make him grab your hip again and probably leave bruises on your skin from how tight his grip is.
You slip your hand down to his while you continue to move. The burn returns in your thighs after only a few seconds, but it's manageable—anything that gets you closer to cumming is manageable, after all.
When your fingers curl around his wrist, you force his hand off of your hip and down toward where the two of you are becoming one. You refuse to lose this battle; this lazy bastard's gonna help you get there.
Holland cocks one eyebrow up and laughs at you when you try to guide his fingers toward your clit and start desperately rutting against them.
"What the hell are you doing? This isn't my dominant hand," he playfully chastises you through his panting. Couldn't hide the smile tweaking at the corners of his lips if he tried to.
You grumble, "You're such an asshole."
It makes him laugh. Again.
"That wasn't very nice."
You look down at his "dominant" hand—the right one—and feel an immense amount of hatred for the cigarette he's still got between his index and middle fingers. And maybe a little bit of jealousy. Those fingers should be paying attention to you.
You stop moving again, much to his and your own dismays. He groans and returns his left hand to your hip. Opens his mouth to bitch about how you're not moving, probably, but you cut him off before he gets the chance to do it.
"Why do I have to do all the work? Can't you just put that fucking thing out?" you whine. The frustration's hitting a boiling point, judging by how high pitched you got. He picks up on that almost immediately. Clicks his tongue at you and shakes his head.
"No," he counters, "'cause they're expensive. Thought you knew better than that."
He looks down at his cigarette and hums.
"But, if you really want my help, you can hold it for me."
His right hand slowly rises between you. The smoke billowing up from that lit cigarette follows it. Never one to back down from a challenge, you do as he says. You grab it from him, plant it between your own right index and middle finger, and pray that he'll keep his word.
He reaches up to grab your chin with that newly unoccupied hand. As his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, he mutters, "Open up."
And you do as he says. How couldn't you? It's an immediate reaction. Holland March might be an inelegant mess of a man, but he's dependable. You know what he's doing because he's done it before, and it was to help you out downstairs last time, too.
He slowly pushes his index and middle fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrap around them—an instinctual reaction, at this point—and you breathe out a soft hum while you gently suck on them. Something about the taste of the lingering smoke on his skin has your head spinning.
Holland smiles at you, a lazy and content lifting of the corners of his lips. Nods his head. You swirl your tongue around the tips of his fingers. He can't even act like he didn't like that. You felt his cock twitch while buried deeply inside of you. Has you giggling in the middle of sucking on his fingers.
"Shit," he groans. "There's my good girl. I missed you, baby."
He pulls his fingers out of your mouth a few seconds later. It's a gentle move; slow and easy, just after he'd made sure he had enough of your saliva on them to work with. He let you suck on them for longer than was necessary, though; had to really commit it to memory this time.
His other hand, the one already fused to your hip, forces you to start moving. You push out some sort of jumbled mess of a sigh, and a swoon, and a whimper. The friction feels so good. The way his bicep flexes with each forced roll of your hips looks so good. Your head aches, and it's not because of the cigarette smoke inundating your senses.
Oh, shit. The cigarette.
Seems like you both remembered it existed at the same time, because suddenly, Holland's gesturing with his head toward your right hand and saying, "I'll help you out, sweetheart, but you gotta help me out, too."
Is it degrading to have to hold your boyfriend's cigarette up to his mouth so he can pull off of it in exchange for him paying attention to your clit? Probably.
Oh well. The prospect was enough to make you do it, so you find your fingers shakily holding the end of it against his lips. He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You'd laugh if you weren't so focused on chasing your orgasm by any means necessary.
"Thanks, baby. Keep moving for me," he softly commands when he blows out his drag. Your right hand drops down to his shoulder. The gentle impact sees a few of the ashes falling off of the end of the cigarette and onto his skin and the sheets. Maybe you'll make him wash them this time.
Although your thighs are on fire, you keep going just like he told you to. Each movement is slow and heavy, but it's deliberate. You're both aching to get there but also desperate to keep this going as long as possible.
"Perfect," he whispers. Gives your hip a soft squeeze while his other hand slips down to your pussy. His fingers, slick with your saliva, gently press against your clit; the way your entire body threatens to go slack with relief has him laughing up at you.
"A little sensitive here, huh?" he teases. Then he starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. Your eyes roll back into your head before you squeeze them shut and nod.
"Yeah. Shut up and keep going," you sass when you finally regain your momentarily-lost concentration. That new stimulation was on track for knocking your coherent thoughts right out of your skull. Too bad your inability to let him come out on top is too strong.
"Anyone ever told you that have awful manners?" he snipes. Your left hand slowly trails up from his waist, fingers teasing the wisps of dark hair below his belly button and up toward his chest. He shudders at your soft touch, hips bucking and a gravelly little moan tumbling from his lips. It isn't long before you find his shoulder and dig your nails into it.
"I think you like my awful manners," you pant.
"Depends on the day," he pants back. The cheeky smirk on his face betrays the seriousness of his tone. If anyone has issues with manners, it's the man beneath you right now.
You lean forward to press a kiss on his lips just to shut him up. He's kissing you like he needs you more than air. As much as you hate to admit it, he's incredible with his fingers. He's got your thighs trembling and your chest heaving and noises coming out of you that you didn't even know you had in you. Each shift of your hips brings you closer and closer to the high you've been chasing all night, especially when you squirm just right and the tip of cock bullies against the soft, sensitive little spot inside of you that seemingly only Holland March can reach.
You break the kiss to breathe, but it's hard. Your ability to do so keep getting stolen away from you by how good he's making you feel. You squeeze your eyes shut and dig your nails a little deeper into his skin, enough to make him hiss. He buries his face in your neck and wraps his left arm around your waist. Pulls you even closer to him, almost as if he was trying to get into your fucking skin. His hips gently roll upward to meet yours as he continues tracing circles on your clit. They're quicker, now. A little sloppier. But they're doing the job.
"Come on, baby," he purrs against your jaw. "Give it to me. You're right there. You can do it."
You whine from the praise, high-pitched and breathy and humiliatingly desperate. Your left arm slides around his neck and curls up toward his head, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking on it a little harder than you intended. Holland moans between the kisses he's peppering on your jaw and neck, and that pretty little noise goes straight down to your pussy.
Your climax hits you like a fucking freight train; hard enough to make you black out for God knows how long. Maybe it was heavier because of how many times it was ripped away from you. Maybe it was the way he added a little more pressure and sped up a little more. Maybe it was the way he was still matching the roll of your hips every time you'd move.
Whatever it was, you explode. It's almost visceral when you let out the moan you'd been saving for your orgasm. Animalistic, even.
When you come back to it, back down to your body, Holland's got both of his arms around you to keep you steady and he's pouring sweet nothings into your ear like it's his job. Although, you're not sure if they're nothing; every kind word that leaves his filthy mouth is usually sincere.
"Fuck," you sigh in relief, releasing your hold on his hair and straightening a little. He pulls back—but not before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips and telling you he loves you.
"I think you just love how I do things for you," you tease. "Like holding your cigarette for you while we're fucking."
"Yeah, sure," he laughs. "Maybe that's it."
You playfully roll your eyes. He leans forward. Kisses you again. You can feel that he's finished inside of you; it's warm and wet and you're certain that it's making a mess on the sheets as it drips down beneath you both. But you've got no urgency to get up. If you could stay here forever, you would.
You look down at your right hand and find that cigarette is somehow still in it. After he steals a quick peck from your lips and leans back against your headboard when he's certain you're steady, you huff.
"Why do you like these so much, anyway?"
You raise the cigarette up between you. He shrugs. His hands slide away from your back so he can get a good layout of your body. They slowly run over your sides, fingers brushing over each dip and curve of your frame. He gives both of your hips a soft squeeze. Settles at your thighs, where he caresses them and where his fingers draw random, gentle shapes into your sticky skin.
"Nicotine addiction, probably."
You laugh at him and shake your head.
"Idiot," you mutter beneath your breath, the insult tainted by how you've got a big smile playing on your lips.
He eyes that cigarette. The one that probably has one measly drag left on it, at best. You roll your eyes. Then you gently bring it up to his lips, let him take that last pull, and you wink at him.
It's nice to help him out every once in a while.
tags: @clarkscolumn @thceseus (sorry that i forgot to tag you guys lol)
thank you so much @anon-188 for tagging me in your one year of superman (2025) celebration. here's my contribution for my own Clark Kent works!
a piece for Clark Kent is actually one of the first thing i've ever uploaded on this account so he is very important to me. happy one year all <3
⭑ first fic: kisses after work. — fluff, 531 words.
coming home after work with clark kent as your partner!!
⭑ most recent fic: Deny Clark Kent and He WILL Deny You! — smut, 1.1k words.
orgasm denying with clark kent.
⭑ most popular fic: neighborly favors. — fluff + smut, 3.4k words.
Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???
you felt insecure when you saw the nightgown you used to love before you overthink your body. thankfully, Clark is there to show you how much more you are than that.
⤷ camera rolling... action! — fluff + smut, 1.4k words.
what happens when Clark gets a collaboration request from you? someone he watched and jerked off to too much at night, and someone he had secretly fallen into.
⤷ clark kent caught jerking off to his roommate — smut, 958 words.
and more!
⭑ bonus:
⤷ Daily Freaks — by C and Ivy ୨ৎ˚⋆
a collab hosted by my beloved @theworstwolvie and i, filled with short stories of us being perverts to Clark Kent.
how crazy it is that it's already a year since the peakest of peak movie came out. i've always loveddd writing for Clark Kent and i hope that i can write more for all of you. thank you so much for the support all ❤︎
no pressure tags -> @faepoetry @lovee-potions @clarknsun @scissorhvnds + all of supes' writers out there (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
prompt: day 2, placing a kiss on all their favorite parts.
summary: you felt insecure when you saw the nightgown you used to love before you overthink your body. thankfully, Clark is there to show you how much more you are than that.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! body insecurity, body imaging, hurt/comfort, cursing, kissing, oral (f receiving), afab!reader, fingering, Clark comes on his pants (canon btw), domestic smut, domestic Clark Kent, pet names (sweetheart and my love).
wc: 2k words.
a/n: honestly self indulgent bcs i feel too much like reader sometimes. this was my first time writing smut so feedbacks are welcomed.
main masterlist ┊Galentines Party masterlist
The bathroom light was too bright at night, always is.
You stood there, in front of the mirror with the door half-closed. Toothbrush set tidily on the counter, moisturizers perfectly stacked with the order of use, and a satin soft blue babydoll draped across your arm.
You bought it years ago when you wanted to spoil yourself. Worn it countless times ever since. It was soft, cool even during Metropolis’ hot summer nights, and most of all, Clark said it gives easy access.
It was your favorite too. Well, used to be. It was the kind you used to love—back when you didn’t think twice about your body.
You lifted it over your head, just for a bit. Maybe you can stop feeling displeased with yourself.
Then you saw your reflection.
The way your stomach folds when you relax. The curve of your arms. How your thighs touch. How your hips are scarred with new stretchmarks you seem to find every day.
Because no matter how flawlessly you organized your bathroom, all you could see was your unattractive self.
Your chest tightened immediately.
Quietly, almost shamefully, you folded the nightgown and set it back on the counter. Opting to reach for your safest option—Clark’s old sweater and your oversized sweats. Clothes that are meant to bury you underneath it all.
You sighed, tugging the sweater in a comforting gesture, before hearing a knock on the door and your husband slipping inside.
“Hey,” he smiled, already sensing something, like he always does.
“Finished with the book?” you forced a smile as you shove those insecurities away.
Clark spotted it immediately, but he decided to not push. “I’ll read the last chapter tomorrow.” he hummed, brushing his teeth beside you. It was as if he was giving you space. Again, not forcing, but making you know he’s there anyway.
When he was done, he rinsed, dried his hand on a hand towel, and finally paused as he recognized the nightgown on the counter.
“You… are not wearing it again,” he says softly. You would have thought he’d judge, but there were none in his tone.
You stiffen. “It’s dumb,” pushing out a chuckle that sounded too phony. “I just– it felt weird.”
You turned towards the mirror again, instinctively pulling down the hem of your sweater. As though you were making yourself smaller.
That’s when you felt him shift, his hand hovering before your wrist. Silently asking you to pause.
“My love…” he mumbled. “Don’t.”
You let out a shaky breath as your heart grew heavier. “I just– my stomach, arms… I know it’s stupid, but I don’t… feel nice.”
He stepped closer. You felt his warmth behind you before his palms ended on your waist. Just there. Not forcing anything, just holding you securely, like he’s reminding you that nothing about you has to be fixed.
“I know…” he murmurs quietly against your hair, eyes locking with yours through the mirror. “I hear you, I really do.”
Your eyes fluttered close as you felt his thumb begin to press gently on your sides.
“And I know that my words are just… words,” kissing down the back of your neck now, making you shiver and sigh in content. “But trust me when I say this… when I see you, I don’t see the things you’re trying to hide,” he breathed against your skin.
He nipped the sensitive spot under your ear, making you gasp. Eyes opening to see his half-lidded eyes in the mirror again, “I see the person I love.”
“I see someone who is kind, strong, selfless… someone I adore.”
His lips kissed down your still covered shoulder, fingers now working their way underneath your sweater, brushing against your skin, making you shiver.
“I love every inch of you. I love everything about you,” he assured. You felt the tears threatening to flow with the amount of emotions you felt. You were just thankful that Clark is… Clark.
“Clark…” you whispered, as if pleading. For what you don’t know yet.
He then turned you tenderly, away from the mirror so you could only focus on him. Your fingers framing his face like it was instinct, pulling him towards you as you share a promising kiss.
It was slow, unhurried. His lips moved in a convincing manner, and for once you truly believe that you are more than what you can see of yourself in the mirror.
When he pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, you felt like you were falling more in love now.
“I see you. Exactly as you are,” he whispers gently. The hands under the sweater mapping the familiar curves of your body.
You finally smiled. A real one this time, before kissing him again.
He returned it, fingers tracing the underside of your chest, curve of your spine, before finding its way back to the hem of your sweater. “Can I?”
You nodded. He then began lifting your sweater up, setting it against the counter. You heard him let out a sharp breath as he saw your bare body, before he picked you up suddenly in a princess carry, like you weigh nothing, making you yelp in response.
He strides back towards the bedroom again, setting you carefully on the bed.
“I love you,” he smiled, fingers finding your body again like he couldn’t handle a second without it.
He moved you against the pillows, crawling before you and rested his big frame between your legs, and started to kiss you again.
Your own palm glided down the muscles of his front, finding the hem of his shirt and lifted it slowly. Wanting to feel the warmth of his skin against yours.
He obliged by pulling away from the kiss to get rid of his disturbing shirt, throwing it somewhere across the floor.
Your fingers began to worship his pectorals, the crevices between his abs, trailing the soft patch of hair leading down his crotch, making him shudder. “I love you more, Clark,” you smile at him lovingly.
He let out a soft chuckle. “Don’t start a battle you know you’ll lose, sweetheart,” before kissing you again. Body easing down against yours, chest to chest.
You felt your heart bloom as you wrapped your arm around his neck, pushing him down further as your own body arched towards him. Like you were trying to seep into him.
He repeatedly brushed the skin of your stomach that you hate so much, yet the gesture made you feel safe rather than insecure.
Humming, he began kissing down your jaw, biting it slightly, making you gasp. Descending onto your neck, planting soft wet kisses along it.
“Clark–” you whimpered, feeling the panties you wore getting stickier with every kiss he landed. Yet he keeps taking his time.
“I know… patience, sweetheart,” his lips found your soft breasts, leaving marks along it before giving a gentle sweep on your hardened nipple, making your back arched instinctively, as a soft moan escaped your mouth.
He repeated the gesture, knowing how sensitive you are there. Your fingers ended up in his hair again, pulling it needily, “Please…”
He then gave the same motion on your other breast, making you clench your thigh, hips bucking against his as you chase the friction.
He groaned, feeling his own control fraying with every motion of your hip. His own chasing yours, making you feel his hardened length against your wet core.
He continued kissing down, under your sternum, both sides of your ribs, before finding his way to the stomach you hate so much.
“God– I love this so much you know that?” His kisses carried new urgency, as if reminding you again that he didn’t care, and only saw you as the goddess you are.
There wasn’t a spot in your stomach he missed. Your fingers are brushing his curls now. How he looks at you, that singular focus made you feel like the only woman in the world.
Kissing down your navel once, before he reaches the waistband of your sweats. His fingers hooked around it, looking up at you in a silent ask for permission.
You nodded before he sat up and pulled the fabric slowly, leaving you almost trembling with anticipation. “Clark, please–” you begged once more. The cold of the air hitting the wet patch of your panties makes you shiver.
He kissed the edge of the basic cotton fabric, before sliding it off slowly from your hips. You can hear him let out a hopeless groan as he sees your glistening folds, practically almost dripping on the sheets.
Yet he didn’t indulge himself. He parted your thighs apart, before kissing each side of the tender flesh, even biting it softly once, making you let out a sharp breath.
“I don’t know how you hate them so much when they’re so… soft and squishy,” sounding drunk off of you. You blushed, thighs closing a bit without realizing it, trying to hide yourself once again.
“Sweetheart–” a warning tone, coaxing open your thighs once more. “I love every inch of you. I don’t care how you look, how much you weigh… I only care about you,” his hand reaching up to yours, lacing your fingers together and squeezing it.
“So please believe me… all of the imperfect things you think you have? They are… the most perfect wonders I have ever encountered,” he whispered, making you squeeze his hand in return.
You nodded. “I will try… to think better about myself.”
“That’s all I ask,” offering you that deep dimple of his as he smiles at you with unmistakable warmth.
He then kisses your inner thigh again, opening your legs further. Arms curling around each thigh, but his hands still found yours. Not wanting to let go of it.
He kisses your mound, then the bundle of your nerves, making you shudder. You felt your hole clench around nothing at the stimulation, making him hum in delight.
He then, finally, licked a stripe from your leaking opening up to your clit, making your back arch against the bed and letting out a broken sound from the back of your throat.
“Fuck–” he let out a shaky breath, before immediately diving back into your heat. Lapping and sucking it like it was his last meal.
Your hands squeezed tighter as you felt the pressure quickly grew. His tongue probes into your hole, worshipping you without rush. His taste buds mapping every inch of the ridges of your warm wall, making you let out quiet cries.
“Clark– so good–” you whimpered, hips rolling against his mouth. You let out a sharp breath as he enveloped his lips around your clit now. “Fuck–!” you moan out, making him smile against your skin.
You then felt it. His finger tracing the rim of your hole, before pushing it inside. The wet sound and the gasp you let out were downright filthy. The pad of his finger reached the spots you can’t reach. Pushing in, pulling out, making you squirm in pleasure.
He inserted another one, curling them inside you, hitting the spot that made you see stars. He repeated the motion, his mouth still working its way around your clit. Sucking, licking, and sucking again. Even grazing his teeth just the slightest, resulting in a sharp sound.
The dual stimulation was making you reach your height fast. The room echoed with the wet sounds of his mouth and your cunt, the sounds of yourself, and also his groans.
It was like he was the one getting pleasured. Clark lets out his addicting moans against your skin, the vibration making the stimulation better.
“Shit– I’m close,” you croaked, making the gentle, slow pace of his quickens. He still reaches the spongy spot carefully, but with more urgency now. His mouth worked its way with sudden need, making your body tremble, before–
“Clark–!” you cried, reaching the perfect climax. His eyes followed your beautiful face as your jaw slacks. Face flushed, your body glistening under a thin sheet of sweat. Then he sees how your hips jerked, thighs trembled, and you wrapped around his head tightly. He didn’t stop though. Keep eating—working his fingers as he prolonged your climax.
You then heard his own moan. Low and deep from his throat.
As your mind cleared up from your orgasm and your heaving chest settled, you looked at him. His own curls are damp. Face glistening with your juices. Breaths heavy. He looked drunk, like he just…
“I think I came–” he blurted, eyes wide, making you gape as well.
“Again?” as this was not a new thing, hell, he came by himself too much just from pleasing you at this point.
He only let out a warm laugh, licking his shiny lips from your juices. “What can I say? I just love you that much.”
You rolled your eyes before pulling him in a kiss, moaning as you taste yourself on his tongue.
He parted, letting his forehead rest against yours, as he smiled softly.
omg i was reading some of your fics and i saw you wrote for jjk. i have really been wanting to get into reading manga and watching anime but idk where to start and i was wondering if you had any recommendations? ❤
INDYYYYYYYY im so excited that you're interested on getting into anime, though i honestly don't really watch a lot.
but some of my favorites are of course, jjk (though it's a bit sad as you get later into the series), vinland saga (s1 is full of action while s2 is a complete contrast), jojo's bizarre adventure (if you want something fun), and death note is pretty beginner friendly and it's so good!
tell me your thoughts if you watched any of them! <33
i apologize but writings might be slower now. currently having 0 motivations and june would be a very busy month for me (i have a big practical exam, proposal defense for my thesis, and finals in the end if the month so wish me luck) 😔😔
i promise that all your requests are duly received and noted! just no promises on when it will be out.
summary: Peter Parker lost everything. The Avengers, Tony, his aunt, Ned, and MJ—all spelled away, till he met you. someone he'd eventually found comfort in. yet he never saw how you looked at him, too lost with his own ghosts to notice you were waiting.
tags/warnings: ANGST, cursing, reader is an idiot tbh, peter is also an idiot, peter is sad, based on the new bnd trailer but not accurate, also probably inaccurate timelines.
wc: 2.5k words.
a/n: AHHH HERE IT IS!! this one is for my day one fellow peter parker girlie @amoebadue. also i kinda don't like the ending so... yeah, and sorry for the long wait!!!
masterlist
Peter had told you everything.
Him web-swinging since he was 15, meeting Steve Rogers for the first time and getting his ass kicked, Thanos snapping half the universe, Tony’s gut-wrenching sacrifice that he said still keeps him up at night.
Even the spell ‘incident’ from four years ago where he lost the entirety of his world. Peter said it was still his biggest guilt—not being able to protect his loved ones when he could have.
Then smaller ones.
Aunt May, the small apartment they used to share, eating cheap Thai food because the two would likely start a fire sooner than something edible. How Ned is the only one who sticks by his side, with movie nights filled with salty popcorn and making set after set of Legos. And MJ.
Always MJ—the MJ.
He always speaks of her like she was an angel—a goddess that is perched so high on a pedestal it might as well block out the sun. With her sharp wit and pretty smile, he said that she was the only one who saw through him. The Peter behind the mask.
And yeah, you’re jealous.
It would be so much easier if she were this– bad person, but of course, she wasn’t.
You felt guilty for feeling that way, but another part of you just can’t help but feel hurt. Sometimes, it feels like he made you nothing more than just a rebound—a placeholder in the void that the spell left, even though nothing official was ever established—not even acknowledged between you two.
Maybe it was stupid. Hell, you were stupid.
Falling for someone who is so undeniably unavailable—still being chased by the ghosts of his past and his life full of regrets, he’s yet to be content with.
But how could anyone not fall head over heels in love when Peter is… Peter?
Total dork with that lopsided grin, always double-checking after a particularly brutal study session for your Immunoengineering course, the one who’d insist on walking you back to your dorms even though he lived alone at an apartment, blocks away in the opposite direction from you, his curls always sticking up in different directions no matter how many times he brushed them back.
It started when he was late to an introduction class for Biomechanics.
“Fuck…” he’d say under his breath, quickly looking around for an empty chair as the professor glared at him like he just blew up a lab.
Your eyes were on your computer, organizing the folders you’d just made, each titled after the courses you took in your first year, when a scrap of a chair made you look up.
You were confused about why the brunette in front of you was so flustered, as if he had just finished a marathon, though he wasn’t heavy breathing, and no drop of sweat was visible. Looking down as he motioned to the empty seat beside you.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
You shook your head, before locking your gaze on your computer again, as if he wasn’t there.
Since then, he has been your seatmate in that class. Then another when you found out that you both are in the same major.
You learned his name was Peter. A pretty smart guy, not so bad in the eyes, with a charming smile that is contagious, and stupid jokes so unfunny you can’t help but laugh at them.
But then it went on after the classes, too.
It was small at first, walking together to class, then the endless library sessions where both of you would always end burnt out after hours—he even got you obsessed with this deli owned by someone called Mr. Delmar (though it was weird how he always seemed to linger every time you’re there).
Then it grew; he would start to walk you back after those late nights, block after block. The city would unfold before you, neon signs buzzing, sirens wailing, groups of friends laughing freely after a night of drinks, and his voice would fill the silence.
Joking about how the previous lab practice was an absolute disaster and that the professor was a total bum for blaming your group when the problem was totally the improperly made bacterial cultures.
You’d giggle. “It’s fine, Pete! We should be glad he’s not failing us.”
His eyes widened—dumbfounded. “You’re too nice, you know?”
You only rolled your eyes, nudging his side with your elbow, making him playfully stumble as he grinned. You both burst out laughing after that.
And whenever you’d arrive in front of your building, he’d always make sure. “Text me when you’re in?”
“I will. Thank you for walking me home,” you smiled, earning one from him in return.
“Night.”
“Good night, Pete.”
You swear it didn’t feel weird before. Just two friends who don’t have any other friends except each other getting close, and surely Peter walking you home is just an act of basic human decency, right?
At least that’s what you told yourself—yet you keep on falling and falling every day.
The weeks blurred into routine—the nights spent together getting later now. Cloudy ones where Peter would share his hoodie because you forgot to bring a jacket. Bright ones, where he’d point out constellations when you’re both too tired to continue studying, yet secretly not wanting to go back to being alone. Even nights where you don’t utter any words to each other—only the too greasy fries and burgers being passed along as a silent witness of each moment you share.
One particular night though, he could sense how different you are compared to the rest of the nights. How you struggle to look him in the eye, way too quiet for someone who loves to laugh openly alongside him.
So stupidly gentle Peter stopped you as you were just about to go up to your dorms.
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
Your eyes widened, the dam that you built up since you woke up that day was now too close to breaking, and you nodded. Guiding him up to your rooms—his hands would hover just around you in case you needed grounding.
You finally let go the moment you stepped inside. Bursting everything that has been boiling up under the surface—under your smile that won’t reach up to your eyes fully, and he’d held you through it. Arms wrapped around you as you buried your face against his neck, muttering soft-spoken words as you apologize for wetting his sweater.
“It’s okay… I’m here for you,” as his hands would run along your back soothingly, calming you down.
He wound up falling asleep on your cramped couch that night. Saying something about how you needed someone to look after you as you rest.
How could you not fall for someone like him?
The line began to fade out even more.
What was once late nights in the library turned into shared company in one of your places. Yours when you’re feeling particularly lazy, or his when the both of you were craving that Chinese food just beside his building.
And then he told you everything. You were perplexed—almost laughing at his face till you realized that he was serious.
“You’re actually Spider-Man?” Your mouth gaped, your brain short-circuited like the neurons inside were just reduced to two and you’re struggling to wrap your head around it.
“Want me to show you?”
The next thing you know, you were screaming on the top of your lungs, clinging onto him tight as he swung you around the city. Shooting his webs effortlessly as he grinned. “You’re way too scared!”
“Of course I’m scared, you idiot! I am basically flying without any harness–” shutting your eyes and yelping as he drops from a building—swinging you back up the moment you feel like it was all over. Your legs were stumbling as you landed on top of a rooftop.
“Do not do that again,” you glared, making him laugh. Taking off the mask, his arm would still be wrapped tightly around your waist. Hand tucking your now messy hair just behind your ear.
“You’re a mess.”
You rolled your eyes to hide the fluster, thankful that the spot you were in was particularly dark. “Shut up. You ruined my hair.”
He also told you the secrets he kept alone. The spell and the years that followed him after first, then deeper—Tony’s last words and how he’s like a dad to him, how much he misses Ned and how guilty he is for probably making him think that he had no other friend growing up, and of course, MJ.
He laughed bittersweetly as he recounted how overprotective she was, always nagging and telling him to be more careful, yet never telling him to stop doing what he loved.
He told you how much he missed her arms around him, her soft and sweet lips, how she would make everything—the pain, the memories—gone in just one kiss.
The moment he showed you the letter he wrote for her from four years ago, you knew that you’re practically chasing nothing but a floating soul.
But you forced yourself to stay fine. To keep smiling and telling him that he did all he could, and you were there for him now. It felt more and more painful with each story he told you, but you can’t tell him to stop—you don’t want him to stop.
If it meant you had to hear about this ghost of a past just to let him stay, then you would.
So you swallow it. Every bile stuck in your throat, every confession you desperately want to say to him—you let it slide so that you can get more pieces of him.
And admittedly, it was so so incredibly stupid of you, but goddamnit– why was it so hard to hold him accountable? To finally be honest with yourself and let him go?
Then it happened. At some MIT students’ mixer party, he’d ask you to accompany him. Something about ‘networking before you graduate’ and ‘unwinding’—so you went together– well, not together together, but he asked you, so that had to count, right?
Now he’s at your door, smiling boyishly as he fidgets with the collar of his shirt. You let out a snort, before carefully fixing it up for him. Fingers lingering just above his chest too long for it to be safe.
You cleared your throat. “Ready to be functional adults?”
He’d chuckle and nod before you both walked towards the address that was sent.
The apartment was small, like any other student-owned place, but cozy nonetheless. The lounge hummed with lowly played music, conversations carried across by different groups of people, and there was a table filled with different alcohols and snacks.
Both of you instinctively took a deep breath, then your gazes landed on each other. He exhaled first, then you followed—these were the moments that made it harder to actually let go. How his shoulders visibly relaxed the moment he saw you, how his eyes softened like the pressure of the world and the mask were not there. For a second, it felt real. Like he was looking at your face for cues, and not the ghosts.
You felt your breath hitch, before you nursed it back to one of your rehearsed smiles. “Should we go look around?”
“Yeah. Text me if anything happens, okay?” he smiled back at you.
You nodded, before separating ways with him. You mingled with people, introducing yourself and your major, complimenting some girl’s hair, debating on which spot near the campus has the best pizza.
Meanwhile, Peter found his way to the table full of snacks. Already filling up a plate with your favorites, picking some up for him as well. Studying the choice of drinks and opting for a canned soda instead.
He watched as you weaved through the crowd. Effortlessly joining in conversations, with your laughter ringing through the crowd, he felt at peace. He felt like everything was going to be okay.
You found him already looking at you then. Immediately smiling, you excused yourself to the others so you could walk up to him.
Peter raised the canned soda and the plate of snacks, making you giggle.
For a moment, he forgot about the past. His mind and eyes were only on you.
But then, his gaze snags across the room—just for half a second—then it locks.
It was her.
He froze, plate and cans almost dropping to the ground if it weren’t for his super abilities. His heart lurched, breath caught, eyes zeroed in on the sight of her.
Narrowing your eyes at his sudden shock, you then followed his line of sight.
MJ.
She stood out like a beacon with her sleek black top—so perfectly fitted you would think it was made just for her. Her hair was tousled just right and effortless, not like yours, where you spent almost too long just to get it right.
Though she was not alone.
Beside her was a guy. Tall, broad shoulders, nice and bright smile, with his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Her own hand sprawled on his chest, the two whispering something that looked too intimate, before laughing with each other.
You looked at Peter again. How his once relaxed body is now rigid, his lips trembling just like how it was the nights when the memories hit him the hardest.
Your own heart was hurting now. You thought that he was finally seeing you. Seeing what’s in front of him instead of the past—turns out you were wrong. Oh, so very wrong, you almost laughed at yourself.
You finally took a deep breath, composing yourself, before continuing towards him.
“You okay?”
He swallowed hard and nodded silently, eyes finally flicking towards you again—grateful for the interruption from his own thoughts, yet fractured.
Stepping beside him and looking at her again. “Is that her?” You knew it was, and you knew it would hurt the moment he answered, yet you asked anyway.
“Yeah…” his voice shaking.
“She’s happy. She deserves it.”
“And you don’t?” you asked carefully.
He looked at you again. Nostalgia and pain etched along his face. “Not after what I’ve done, no.”
You frowned. “Pete– we’ve talked about this…”
He finally gave you one of his practiced smiles, the one he gives whenever he doesn’t want you to worry.
But you’ve learned to see through it at this point.
“It’s not your fault, okay?” you assured again, fingers twitching to reach out to him.
He nodded, then looked at her again.
“You deserve to be happy, Peter.”
He only let out a shuddered breath. Letting a few beats slip out in silence.
“Let me walk you home?” he eventually managed to let out. Burying his feelings down.
“Yeah,” giving him your soft smile—no matter how painful it was, how foolish you were feeling—knowing that he just needed a timeout from the amount of feelings and memories crashing down.
And now, even when you’re the one he’s walking with, you know that he’s the man who can’t be moved.
this is a collection of writings that are inspired by songs i listen to. from lana del rey to 10cc, everything is possible. so sit back, put on your best headphones, and enjoy!
*⏾ for smut indicator, main masterlist
the tracklist:
♫ Groupie Love - Lana Del Rey
⤷ unsaid, unnamed. | Bucky Barnes | hurt/no comfort, 2.9k words.
falling for him was easy when he was only performing in small bars, but the more your feelings grew, so does his fame. the problem was, bucky doesn't know how to give, and you didn't know how to want less.
♫ I'm Not In Love - 10cc
⤷ practiced words. | Dick Grayson | hurt/comfort, 3.2k words.
"i'm not in love," were the words both of you whisper to yourselves at night, pushing down the deep, deep feelings because you're afraid of the things that might happen if it actually came true.
♫ Silk Lingerie, - Kali Uchis
⤷ complicated and flawed. | Jason Todd | hurt/comfort, 1k words.
Jason Todd believes he's hard to love. it was carved deep after the grave, the rage, the endless nights of just surviving. but you see past it. he was the man you'd choose—again and again. complicated or not.
♫ My Man on Willpower - Sabrina Carpenter
⤷ breaking restraints. | Higuruma Hiromi | pwp, 2.2k words. ⏾
your husband loves to initiate. always showing his love with kisses, hugs, especially mind blowing sex—he was obsessed. so why did he suddenly stop?
♫ Moth To A Flame - The Weeknd
⤷ TBD.
a/n: i don't know why but i seem to pick too much angsty songs...
list maybe updated in the case i want to write more and my update schedule is not set. hope you all like it!
